Unforgivably Cursed
by BluntJoey
Summary: As Harry waits at the Dursleys' for the Order's rescue the second he turns seventeen, a VERY unexpected source passes him terrible news: Although he'd used the Cruciatus Curse solely to arrest Snape, who had just betrayed and murdered Dumbledore, the Ministry, undoubtedly still corrupted, plans to sabotage the Order's rescue and charge him for it the moment he turned seventeen...
1. Chapter 1

"Unforgivably Cursed"

"_Hurling smiles and judgments,_

_The blatant tone of your soul..._

_Creates a blackness deep within_."

— 'Sobering', Plumb

* * *

**Author's Note**: This story is AU as it takes place immediately after the events of _Half-Blood Prince_. Inspired by a reader of mine who loved my one-shot _Double Jeopardy_, I decided to try this out. Basically, Harry is being framed in this story for using the Cruciatus Curse on Snape to try to stop him from getting away after murdering Dumbledore. Hope you like it!

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Chapter One: _Dread_

"_Your maxims are proverbs of ashes; your defenses are defenses of clay_." - Job 13:11-13

Harry awoke in the middle of the night startled, accidentally letting out a slight shriek. Terrified that the Dursleys may have heard him, Harry sat up alertly, wiping the puddle of sweat off his forehead and unbuttoning his soaked pajama shirt. Again, just like every other night since he'd returned to Privet Drive following his sixth Hogwarts year, nightmares recollecting Dumbledore being murdered and the Death Eaters attacking Hogwarts haunted him restless. Harry had hoped that since he'd be safe at the Dursleys', at least until his seventeenth birthday anyway (which was now just a day away, actually), that he would not be so easily disturbed.

How wrong he'd been. He hadn't had a peaceful night's sleep since that bastard Snape killed Dumbledore in cold blood while the defenseless headmaster begged for mercy. '_I reckon I haven't slept more than four hours at any one time since that night_,' ruminated an annoyed Harry to himself. Yes, it was the trauma of losing the man he'd admired more than anyone else that so pained him, losing the one person whom had in fact faithfully protected him since the very night of his parents' death, but equably maddening, too, was how Snape had gotten away with so cowardly betraying them all. Pointlessly attempting to shake off these thoughts, Harry knew too well that he would not be able to return to sleep (he never could), and with a weary sigh turned on his side and flickered on his bedside lamp.

Relieved to not hear any footsteps or door slams from the other side of his bedroom door, Harry let out the deep breath he'd been holding. However, then of course came the repetitive, completely despairing thoughts which were so all-consuming. '_It's never going to get better either. As a matter of fact, after today it'll only be _worse_ — assuming I even live to see tomorrow night_.' This was very true — the moment he turned seventeen the protection enchantments that made staying at the Dursleys' irreversibly safe due to his mother's bloodline and her sacrificial death in attempt to save Harry, would be gone, for good too. As Dumbledore had explained to him just over a year ago, the extraordinary power of that beyond rare magic would instantly expire the moment he became of age, which in the Magical World referred to a wizard or witch's seventeenth birthday. '_Less than twenty-four hours away,_' thought Harry miserably; indeed, his own suffering had undoubtedly turned him into an overwhelmingly pessimistic young man.

If only Harry knew that the "worse" scenario he was currently expecting (which he obviously viewed as irrefutable) would be about a million times more so than he could ever have imagined.

* * *

Nerve-wracked, Harry spent the entire next day anticipating the "rescue" which, notably, he knew nothing about, because although the Order had notified him it would happen, they did not at all give him details or instructions. The reason given for such concealment was that the risk was too great that the letter could be intercepted by Voldemort or his henchmen. Professor Lupin, whom himself had written the letter, did emphasize his apologies, and Harry technically even agreed with the Order's decision on that, but it did not make the excruciating suspense any easier to endure. He was forced to face a life-or-death experience (in which 'death' was arguably more likely at that) without a shred of foreknowledge. As he suffered the strife of this, in some ways it felt like the hours leading up to midnight were vanishing at light speed, and then in other ways the heart-wrenching wait of it felt tortuously prolonged. Eventually Harry just felt like there wasn't anything that made sense anymore...

Throughout the course of the day the Dursleys made it their mission to prove to Harry that they were elated about him leaving. Dudley and Uncle Vernon, making sure to appear carefree as can be, watched the game on television, exaggerating their laughter as they blared the surround sound. Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, made sure to display an extra-high level of perkiness, and without being asked made hotdogs and cookies for the two. Nonetheless, Harry privately suspected there had to be some fear in them that if he, Harry, were no longer being protected, perhaps they wouldn't be safe, either. If nothing else there was something to be said about the glimmer of terror that had passed Petunia's eyes when Harry had first told them about Voldemort's return, back when Dudley had been attacked by that Dementor. That alone made it quite clear that his aunt was to some degree less ignorant than she (intentionally) came across about the severe consequences of such news.

Anyhow, this was all in stubborn response to when, closer to the start of his summer vacation (if it could even be called that), Harry had tried persuading them to flee into hiding: "Do you lot really think Voldemort would hesitate to kill you?! You're Muggles for Merlin's sake, AND my only living relatives. He probably already plans to take pleasure in the opportunity to kill the rest of my family, too, not to mention he'll be furious I escaped!" Those were the impatient words which he tried to convince them with, but Uncle Vernon wouldn't have any of it, much too prideful. In fact, very strongly the man was fastidious to declare that he wasn't going to desert his own home because of, according to his uncle, "...the trouble YOU'VE gotten yourself into, boy." (Harry had to admit he'd felt a lot more confident back then about presuming he would of course escape without fail, if for no other reason than the fact that the impending date had been much farther away, more surreal-feeling.)

Although Vernon's dimwitted response to Harry's forewarning was not altogether surprising — nor his audacious blaming of Harry for the whole thing (just to infuriate his nephew no doubt) — Harry still could not cease to wonder if Petunia differed, if only slightly, with her husband on the matter. After all, Harry would never forget how haunted her voice sounded when she slipped and revealed that she knew not only what Dementors were, but what their purpose was as well. So, logically speaking, it certainly stood to reason that if she knew about Dementors then she was probably aware of other things that Vernon didn't know about, too. Thus, the moment Harry got a chance to confront his aunt alone about this situation he did, because if nothing else he needed to understand why she was allowing Vernon to intentionally lead them to their deaths.

It wasn't until sundown that this miraculous moment of opportunity elapsed. It was when Dudley and Uncle Vernon were loudly playing video games, utterly distracted from the outside world, that Aunt Petunia finally went upstairs for something. Immediately Harry seized what could be his one chance to speak to her alone, because despite the fact that the Dursleys had mistreated him his whole life, they didn't deserve to be murdered. So, creeping up the stairs as silently and quickly as possible, Harry was able to reach his aunt before she even made it to her bedroom door. "Aunt Petunia," he called bravely, safely speaking in a voice that was just loud enough for her to hear. "We need to talk. Now, before Vernon and Dudley have time to notice." It was an unhesitating demand; his domineering confidence gave Petunia no choice.

Aunt Petunia jumped with shock as she acknowledged her nephew, his radiant contention, the audacity he brought, his ultra-demanding demeanor. Instantaneously left gasping for air, Aunt Petunia's reflexes made her turn pale-white as pure, utter distress tossed her aback. Her whole demeanor wrinkled with terror so emphatic that it instantly confirmed Harry's suspicions. '_She DOES know, well too, I reckon, how bad it is, what all this really means_!' Harry thought darkly, only slightly surprised.

When she finally did speak it was in a choked squeak that was almost incoherent. "What are you blithering to me about, boy?" Aunt Petunia shot back sternly, but at this point nothing she said could suffice to even halfway conceal the fact that there was something hidden deep inside her; simply put, Harry's oh-so-dear aunt's vulnerable, defensive voice made it pitifully obvious that she knew damn well what her nephew was referring to.

Frustrated beyond comprehension, Harry frowned at his insubordinate aunt, for there could not have been a worse time than now for her to reject his severe forewarning, even his willingness to in some way help, too. '_How could Aunt Petunia suddenly just stop caring about her own family_?' Harry wondered confusedly. But it felt like the more he tried to mentally reason it the more puzzling the whole thing got, and it affected his ability to at all muster virtually any patience in his response. "Petunia, get off it, would you?! We both know you're a lot more knowledgeable about the wizarding world and Voldemort than Vernon reckons you are," he put bluntly, not bothering to politely address her as 'Aunt' (nor Vernon as 'Uncle' in his reference) in this moment of overheat. To follow himself up immediately, Harry looked her up and down with a nefarious-like eagle eye, trying an intimidation tactic in order to force her into conceding to the truth. "Don't even bother to deny it."

Petunia flinched, returning a sharp look of disgust, except this time it only lasted but a minute. Holding his breath, Harry watched as his aunt looked down at the floor, clearly deep in her own thoughts as her head tilted in motion. It was as though she were calculating her best mode of action with more seriousness than ever, and that was good because it demonstrated that she was subsiding to his reality check, but it also could potentially boast her confidence in her continuous stubbornness. Alas, without bothering to look him in the eye, in a half-audible, tortuously reluctant voice, Aunt Petunia slowly complied despite her humiliation to Harry's demand, beginning in a harassed murmur. "It's not what you think! The people working for your kind's Ministry are planning on arresting you at midnight, once the protection magic ceases—" she began to say very fast, a discomfort more overbearing than ever practically suffocating her tone.

But Harry, incredulous with shock and feeling as though he'd just been stabbed in the back, thrown under the bus, and slapped in the face all at once, in a voice that desperately desired disbelief he couldn't help but spat out in one killing breath, "WHAT?! Arrest me?! Arrest me for what?" he exclaimed, barely able to breathe.

Before responding Aunt Petunia finally lifted her head and prudently looked behind Harry to make sure his outrage hadn't reached Dudley and Vernon downstairs. Luckily, no impending footsteps or voices could be heard, and they'd stood there silent for almost a full minute dreading. She turned back to him, flustering, and in a choked voice said, "Look, Scrimgeour or whatever that awful man's name is said that they have proof you used — what was it that he called it — an Unforgivable Curse, yes that's right. They cut a deal with Vernon and me to give us a top-security refuge to hide in. That's why I haven't—" she started to elaborate, her shaken tone relaxing the more she continued, but once again before she could even be close to finishing Harry once again interrupted.

His anger — infuriation, actually — his shock, his frustration, his total spite for the Ministry's shameful injudiciousness (which was certainly intentional), all of it seemed to take away his conscious freewill, all-consuming. '_No doubt that git Scrimgeour has something up his sleeve_,' Harry thought with a poisonous volume of bitterness inundating him completely. Fighting to breathe after hearing this shell-shocking, rage-inducing news, Harry lividly vented out in a weakened, unintentionally much quieter voice, "What the bloody hell? I used the Cruciatus Curse to try to stop Snape from escaping after he MURDERED Dumbledore, that fucking coward and traitor—"

Aunt Petunia raised her palms forward, gesturing for him to hold on a second, and then took her turn to interrupt. "Harry, listen! I know that already, the Order of the Phoenix or whatever sent me an Owl when they got word of the Minister's conspiracy. They promised me that you, Dudley, Vernon and I would all be saved and then long-term protected as long as I didn't side with the Ministry. But you damn well better hope that your lot can work a miracle tonight, boy!" Aunt Petunia emphasized pessimistically, speaking in a dark, cool tone that revealed how highly doubtful of the Order's competency she apparently was; even yet, though, but this once her voice seriously contained a true, open compassion that Harry was absolutely positive his aunt had never offered him. It was almost too shocking.

Harry let out another deep breath long-delayed, having begun to turn a slight shade of blue already. Then, in a voice that was significantly less overwhelmed and out of control with anger, Harry somehow gained enough strength to bring reason back into the equation, composedly saying, "We better get back downstairs...Does Uncle Vernon even know about all this?"

If possible, Petunia turned an even paler pallid-white, gravely whispering, "No. No, he doesn't." And at that she turned her head away from him, walked around him, descended the stairs, and then, masterfully playing it off as though everything was perfectly normal, Petunia proceeded to the kitchen and pulled out the brownies from the oven just in time.

They could only wait out the remaining hours until midnight; then, for better or for worse they would each find out very quickly whether their greatest horrors would be confirmed...

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**Author's Endnote**: Hope you like what you see so far! Chapter Two will be up soon!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: _Undone_

"_Do not stand upon the blood of your people_." - Leviticus 19:26

It was finally less than an hour before midnight. 11:02 to be exact. Harry's knuckles were white and trembling, his heartbeat racing so fast he truly felt it was going to burst out of his chest. Though Harry was indisputably an incredibly brave person, most of his previous life-or-death encounters were not preplanned for exact calendar dates long in advance. Usually they came at odds spontaneously, and as though Harry were inexplicably cursed, the only "notice'' he'd ever received were the five seconds in which he generally had to readily face his unexpected assailant. This time was entirely different, however, because he'd had a great length of time to dread the occasion, and now at last the oncoming disaster was arriving in mere minutes!

Harry kept telling himself that all he could do was wait and see what happened, but that caveat left him far from comforted (to say the least). Every second he felt queasier, more lightheaded, and ultimately more susceptible to disconcertion as his anxieties piled sweat across his forehead and chilling Goosebumps through his skin. The monumental midnight hour was seriously dawning alas, daunting and overpowering as can be -

Sensing himself grow a bit too panicky at the thought, Harry grunted irritably, and then abruptly decided to venture downstairs for a glass of cool water. If he was lucky he'd get a peek at what the Dursleys (particularly Aunt Petunia of course) were meanwhile up to. Slowly descending the stairs as quietly as possible, Harry then crept under dim chandelier light across the hallway and through the kitchen door unnoticed. But then immediately Harry was taken aback - shuddered senseless in fact - as he unsuspectingly strode right into face-to-face proximity with Aunt Petunia, who was a startling mere three feet in front of him the second he entered the room!

They both ambled to a frizzled halt right away, each taking in the sudden sight of the other. First to react, Aunt Petunia let out a slight gasp. "What are you doing down here, boy?!" she whispered impatiently, her breathless voice left guttural.

Harry flinched a fair few inches back, surprised by her hardened tone given they'd reached something of a truce just hours ago. "...Reckoned I'd have a glass of water, that's all," he answered simply, intent on sounding totally innocent. Then, looking up at her confidently, Harry - speaking in a dry tone of voice that remained unfailingly quiet no less - forwardly posed the question, "So how are _you_ holding up, then?"

Aunt Petunia tripped a slight step back at this, clearly second-guessing her every movement. Surprisingly conceding to come across brisk of all things, and rather dispensing of her tense approach thus, too, she swallowed a climatic gulp before finally answering, "...Fine. Just fine." But as she folded her arms at her chest, her whole frame tightening apprehensively, Aunt Petunia looked far from fine.

Harry gulped painfully, a sudden lump having materialized in his throat. "Ah," he murmured hoarsely. Paling chalk-white, Harry opened his mouth to say something more only to then find himself lost for speech; it seemed that all the fear, suspense and dread tormenting his insides had stolen from him the strength needed to say anything beyond that.

Aunt Petunia surveyed him up and down unsubtly, not able to hide the twinkle of horror in her wide, alerted gaze. Flashing an utmost prudent stare his way, she drew in a long, weary sigh before at last addressing him in an actually hesitant, unassertive voice. "Just try to keep it together, Harry - _all right_?" his aunt desperately emphasized, a soothing, unfamiliar compassion dressing her tone for the second time this evening (and the second time for Harry EVER, too!). And though she sounded at least somewhat puzzled for the right words at this instant, Aunt Petunia's extending hand of caring guidance said it all for Harry, who could only be left transfixed by this never-before-offered warmheartedness from his aunt...

But then, all the sudden and without any warning whatsoever, there came a sudden definite, tackling _Pop! - _And then none other than Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared within one impossible moment in the space between Harry and Aunt Petunia. Immediately taking action, the surreal, towering figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, with those massive biceps of his and that ever-intimidating sharpness, seized a commanding hold on each of them, wrapping a fist around either of their forearms. Finally, in just the next split-second that crossed - in a breathtaking blur that overtook them in which reality seemed to just momentously disfigure - Kingsley's grip on each of them tightened intensely, and then no less miraculously the three of them had simultaneously vanished without a trace from Privet Drive.

* * *

Remus Lupin sped across the pitch-black, starless skies on his Nimbus 2001 straight toward Little Whinging, the little town where Harry Potter, who would be in urgent need of rescuing at precisely midnight tonight, was waiting. Flying alongside his path was Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and arguably the bravest of all, Kingsley Shacklebolt, who as an Auror for the Ministry was literally risking everything for Harry's sake tonight. Evenly trailing behind the four of them at defensive positions across the night sky were several other Order members, none less eager to spare Harry from a pitiful death in vain.

In the present moment however, the fleet was just focused on making it to Privet Drive before the Ministry or Voldemort did. Midnight, 12:00 exactly, would only come once after all, upon the very moment at which Harry would turn seventeen and officially be of age by wizarding standard. The second the clock ticked midnight, thus, the fool-proof, rare-as-ever magic that fully protected Harry from danger as long as he remained at Number Four, Privet Drive (thanks of course to his poor mother's dying to save him) would instantaneously exterminate. So if they didn't beat the Ministry and, worst of all, Voldemort to the punch, Harry would mere seconds later be, at best, arrested by the corrupted Ministry, and at worst, mercilessly murdered at the hands of Lord Voldemort himself. The Order simply could not let the Dark Lord have the satisfaction and glory of killing Harry once and for all -

Remus suddenly felt a sting of fear run through him at the thought. It really made him realize how much he'd truly grown to care about Harry, the son of his tragically lost best friend, infamous James Potter (as he so was back in their Hogwarts years, anyway). '_Stay focused, Remus, mustn't let your guard down if you sincerely intend to save Harry against all odds_', he mulled to himself, sorting his thoughts. There were so many factors to take into consideration, so much deadly danger potentially waiting at the corner of their eyes at all given moments, tonight more than ever. Still, Remus intently tried shaking off such negative thoughts, promising himself that if nothing else, it would without uncertainty be that with blood and sweat stained at his fingertips he, Remus Lupin, had fought his greatest fight yet.

At this one resolute thought, Remus lifted his chin up as he prudently navigated the teetering night sky, confidently zooming at maximum speed on his Nimbus straight towards Little Whinging...

At last they were beginning to close in on Little Whinging. Running on pure reflex, Remus double-checked his watch immediately, pleased to see they were making great time. They had a solid sixteen minutes to all together form the ultimate cooperative diversion by which to most strategically approach Number Four, Privet Drive at last. Slowing down as his comrades caught up in pace, Remus glanced alertly at Tonks, Kingsley, and Mad-Eye sidelong him. Their protective guard was in some way soothing for him, because Remus at very least knew he could rely if nothing else on the three's skills to be damn near formidable. Nodding assertively their ways, in secret, magically silenced communication they as the three forerunners of this Order operation quickly calculated their all-determining next moves.

And to his surprising, sweet relief, once they'd quickly devised their future maneuvers with great precision, Remus actually felt quite impressed by their job well done. Hence, as he led their suspenseful descent into Little Whinging, it was with a confident hope mollifying him just a bit. They were now within the five-minute countdown. The ultimate all-dreaded moment was suddenly arriving at what felt like the speed of light; inevitably, the closer it got to game time seemingly was the more his guarded composure disintegrated. Nonetheless, still Remus reminded himself to not let such rash thoughts consume him, thinking reassuringly, _'We've got experienced duelers with mighty skill and utmost determination on our side who will lead us straight to success. Remember, Remus, this is about _Harry,_not you or anyone else.'_And at that Remus Lupin's focus was sharply re-attended to, his passion and every extraordinary feeling of thrill, adrenaline and dedication epitomized inside him, intoxicating almost...

First a flash, a blinding blur suddenly manifested, then a pack of three-dimensional figures in dark cloaks, faces hidden behind equally dark hoods, all at once obstructed the silent, peaceful average summer night. Luckily, every hidden Order member present was already equipped with his or her wand, so without wasting even a millisecond they all together revealed themselves in one heart-jerking, unhesitating dive straight into the battle. Based on the relentlessness of their actions and the seeming fearlessness of their passionate entry, it easily could have been speculated that every one of these brave wizards and witches had prepared for their most blood-curdling duel yet!

Nevertheless, in less than a blink of an eye deadly spells were casting in every direction nonstop. Thirty seconds in Remus had twice already dodged two firings of the Killing Curse ('_Avada Kedavra_') by mere centimeters. Notwithstanding, the part werewolf, equally capable wizard maintained his steady breath as he flew across the horizon wildly uncoordinated, shifting direction every other second for, first, bare survival, and, second, _strategy_. Ascending a solid twenty feet from the center of the (soon-to-be) murderous dueling, Remus effectively was able to point his wand, despite trembles, at a Death Eater whom, if the glimpse out of the corner of his eyes was fortunate, he recognized as Avery. Passionately focusing on his enemy, Remus whispered as quietly as possible, "_Stupefy_!"

At once sparks emitted from his wand and at intense speeds bulls-eyed on Avery, luckily striking him right at chest-level before brutally tossing him right off his broomstick fifteen feet below to the cold, hard-hitting ground. But Remus had no time to take a good look, nor to at all second-guess his move or even appreciate his own success. Cautiously reverting his full attention back to the battle's front line, Remus knew his next action could be his last if misguided, and was quick to think on his feet as he flew closer in. Maneuvering himself on top his Nimbus in a zigzagging puzzle of mostly diagonal swerves, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible Remus sped up in his pace, heading straightforward towards a Death Eater whom, again if his briefest glance did not deceive him, he recognized as Bellatrix Lestrange.

For a split-second a brief mental distraction passed him by, a spontaneous thought surfacing out of his subconscious, which of course was otherwise absent from all things tonight: indeed, for at best but a split-second Remus appreciated the bittersweet moment, thinking wonderingly to himself. '_Here we go again, I gather_...'

* * *

Harry Potter squinted open his eyes and immediately winced as both the feeling of killing nausea and having the wind knocked out of him momentarily pained him. He was lying on his side on a cold, hard stone floor. Feeling a sting, he lifted himself up from the hard, granite-like surface. His first view of his new home, however, devastated his awed eyes: he was trapped inside a small holding cell behind iron bars which faced an identical row of cells opposite him, separated from by a narrow passageway. The entire area was similarly made of stone and looked similarly granite-like, although Harry eyed only what unsubstantial torchlight permitted. The air was also perverted with a blistering heat, which led Harry to believe he was trapped in a dungeon somewhere.

His wand and glasses were gone, although his clothes remained unchanged. No message was written anywhere for Harry, and he was without a bed, toilet, food, water, or tools of any kind whatsoever. His head unhelpfully ached excruciatingly, threatening to leave him unconscious again. Harry barely could handle the realization that he was going to be a prisoner in inhumane isolation, maybe even for the rest of his life, too...

Two hours passed as this solitary confinement chilled him to the bone like a disquieting ghost. Finally Harry heard echoing footsteps descend some remote stairway. Surprise left him trembling anxiously as the footsteps grew louder and louder. Staying very aware and curious as the mysterious someone's shadow approached, Harry was doubly shocked upon facing the person: it was Kingsley Shacklebolt again, former Order member (obviously) and shameless traitor. Harry glared daggers at him, and in full-on disgust spat, "YOU BLOODY TRAITOR!" Harry was taken off guard as he, surprised by how raspy his voice sounded, realized how out-of-breath he truly was. Alas, only now did Harry realize how dry his throat was - now as he became conscious of the piercing pain manifesting every time he swallowed, to be specific - and immediately craved water, which he suspected he'd, by now, been long deprived of.

Petrified motionless, words failed Harry as he tried hiding the anxiety that currently ripped him apart. He had already completely failed to withhold from sight his vulnerable, uncontainable hatred, which remained animatedly written all over his face. But before he could say more, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the previously admirable Auror he'd been acquainted with two years ago at Sirius' house, in another extraordinary, miraculous moment began quickly morphing into a totally different man, one of different stature, race, and facial features, but a man no less recognizable to Harry:

_Cornelius Fudge_. Yes, unbelievable as it was, facing Harry was the infamous former minister himself, wearing the same pinstripe attire and staggering, demeaning presence which he'd always attempted to play off (no less confident even despite his total public, career-ending downfall, apparently); yes, the power-hungry coward who'd been sacked after covering up Voldemort's return for over a year despite critical foreknowledge, slandering Harry and Dumbledore after the two had repeatedly warned and, in the Headmaster's case, admonished him, now audaciously confronted Harry once again.

Incredulous beyond belief, Harry felt his heart skip several beats, and before he knew it he was flinching several feet aback. The intake of the shocking realization that he'd been devastatingly tricked by Fudge's use of Polyjuice Potion was just too much. Fury, confusion scourged him, but most of all a mortifying sense of desperation inundated him inside all at once. Then, recoiling extra defensive, the shocked adolescent yelled viciously, "Fudge, you incredible bastard!" Harry then jumped forward and put his hands around the iron bars enchaining him, a pointless move in his fit of madness given escape was clearly impossible; instead, the only thing he received were Goosebumps that sizzled through his clammy skin, caught by the surprise of how freezing the iron bars were.

In response, Fudge simply laughed at Harry's fruitless attempts. Grinning delightfully at Harry, the cruel, defamed former minister (apparently vehement to reveal how utterly corrupt he now obviously was, seemingly) patronizingly remarked, "Stop embarrassing yourself, Harry. There is no way to outwit the flawless magic keeping you in your cage like the animal you are. It's the precise place you belong—"

But at this Harry could take it no longer. Interjecting, he, galvanized by all his inner rage, felt his teeth grinding and muscles seriously _vibrating_ in the heat of the passion as he screamed scathingly, "WHERE I BELONG?! I reckon you've gone bloody mad, man! I beg your pardon, good fellow, but the one who truly deserves to spend the rest of his life inside an Azkaban cell, key thrown in the dustbins too might I suggest, is SNAPE! Severus Snape, he murdered Dumbledore!" Losing his breath again, Harry paused, inadvertently forced despite his impassioned tirade to anxiously inhale several life-preserving breaths. And then, mildly recuperated, he urged the Minister more calmly to see reason, more resigned and less threatening as he persuasively began. "Mr. Fudge, please, _please_ listen to me. I am telling you the truth. The single-handed reason I performed the Cruciatus Curse was for the sake of an, in end, failed attempt to prevent Snape from fleeing, Scot-free from justice. That's it." His firm words couldn't have been conveyed more compellingly, an undeniable integrity lingered in his tone the entire time.

But if Harry truly thought his cunning talent of persuasion was any second now going to make the sort of game-changing impact that it had on so many previous occasions, he was very sadly mistaken.

Fudge smiled no less unsympathetically at him, again with an air of condescension arming his demeanor. In fact, as the evil man looked Harry up and down, repulsion transfixed in his eyes, Cornelius Fudge may just as well have been gazing upon the likes of some filthy, contaminant undesirable, at least based on the snarky, stuck-up look engrained on the ex-minister's face, that is. Finally, following several hanging, suspense-filled seconds in which Harry hoped for vindication, Fudge, startling Harry, let out a carefree bout of compassionless laughter before briskly responding, "Nice try, Potter, but attempts at coercing me are purposeless. You, boy, are at last being brought down from your sensationalized pedestal. Finally, following years of your unpunished antics, I, Cornelius Fudge, former Minister of Magic and newly-appointed Elite Prosecutor to the Ministry's Justice Department – am going to demolish you, leave you falling, screaming as you beg for mercy in your shameful descent." The man, whose chilling words had just confirmed his new position of empowerment, abruptly ceased his eloquent, fear-inducing monologue to conclude in just a few shuddering, all-telling horrific words, "_Harry James Potter, you are going to Azkaban for the rest of your pathetic life._"

And then with a long, loud venomous laugh, the new Elite Prosecutor to the Ministry (a newly-exposed entitlement which took several tortuous, grim moments to really sink into Harry) spontaneously turned away from his forlorn prisoner, and then with a stamp of his alligator cowboy boots strode off and away without once looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: _Defeat_

"_Stern discipline awaits anyone who leaves the path; the one who hates correction will die_." - Proverbs 15:10

Before Remus could refocus his wand's aim unnoticed, Bellatrix Lestrange turned in immediate face of him. Her eyes hawked right upon him, face lit up feverishly, and then, crying out in loud, purposefully exaggerated laughter, the more infamous of Death Eaters pretentiously declared in one unhesitating scream, "_Petrificus Totalus_!" Immediately the particularly compassionless, _very_ deadly spell of Lestrange's choice summoned forth: a dash of blue sparks emitted from her wand straight for Remus, who scarcely dodged the spell. But before he could recoil a hex back at her, Bellatrix speedily darted west unexpectedly, diving far off into the horizon at an unprecedented light speed, it amazingly almost seemed, until she was long-gone from radar.

Feeling a rush of brisk relief run through him, slightly humored Remus thought to himself, '_It seems dear Bellatrix was a _wee_ bit too sure of herself; ha, reckon Lestrange didn't second the thought of me avoiding her pathetic little attempt at cleverness, did she?_' Caught up in all the momentum, unbelievably Remus only now spontaneously acknowledged the Ministry's absence. This would pose a serious, unpredictable twist to the peril of things tonight, this he instinctively knew for sure. After all, he and the others had been prepared to fight _two_ opposing parties, not one, and though it made things relatively easier for them, the mysterious missing link — the fleet of Ministry henchmen obviously expected to come attempt to arrest Harry — was absolutely a most disquieting, alarming thing. But nonetheless, before he could give the pressing matter more thought, a big, beyond deafening _Boom!_ sounded as an enormous, thrusting implosion of all-encompassing fire blasted from within the Dursley home! Then, in less than a heartbeat the consequential force of pressure emitted from the massive blast and nearly sent Remus swinging off his broomstick, yelling out in total shock as he was in one surreal instant thrown off balance across midair about thirty feet east.

Holding on barely by his one fist's grip onto the edge of his Nimbus, other hand dangling uselessly below, Remus held his breath for dear life. Then, in a blinding flash of a second, somehow he managed to pull himself significantly up, enduring, bettering his one-handed grip on his broomstick while slowly reaching to wrap a firm hold on its firm twigs with his other hand, too. Totally out of breath and feeling at the brink of death in his plight of utmost weakness, Remus unbelievably in one huge summon for strength pulled himself _all the way up_ successfully back into proper position on top his broomstick. It took a second to really accept that his either leg was wrapped comfortably around his Nimbus' weight, that he was still alive, before adrenaline mixed in with a directionless impulse sent him soaring off.

And then the all-daunting reality of things crashed through him, immediately threatening to kill his whole fighting spirit at once. That was it, everything was over. They had failed, failed miserably, all their good work leading up to this very abrupt, suspenseful revelation for nothing. Number Four, Privet Drive had somehow been blown off the map, had exploded from the inside in giant waves of fire long before he and the others could manage to escort Harry from the home. All of it was for nothing, everything they'd done to make the night a success thus far officially a total waste, now as the Dursleys' destroyed home continued burning down to an ash of smithereens.

It was all over.

Remus turned away from the spectacle of horror, unable to resist a painful twitch of his mouth as unbearable acceptance of his total and complete failure tonight packed a serious punch through his mind, enfeebling him temporarily senseless. '_Harry's dead, Harry's dead, oh God, I've failed him, I've failed everyone!' _Terrified, this pitch-black, consuming thought poured through him, leaving him pervaded by an absolutely freezing, disorienting mist. Gasping throatily breath-to-breath, Remus reluctantly slowed down a bit once he'd navigated a considerable distance from the blood-hurtling centerpiece of the battlefront. Letting himself heave a few deep, life-filled breaths, mildly recuperated he did not waste a spare moment in time before making a full sharp turnaround, returning to face with utter amazement the shocking, surreal scene unfolding: the Dursley home was now for all practical purposes completely demolished, fallen-apart in huge, burnt pieces as still ever-growing flames riveted, catapulted everywhere throughout the home from the inside, and inevitably all that was left was a portrait of a destroyed home disintegrated to smithereens. The heat, even from Remus' fair distance, felt molten-hot, like a burning coal wire slashing into his skin.

Still failing to fathom the utterly shell-shocking sight of true devastation before his wide, haunted eyes, Remus gulped painfully at the thought of Harry's family, too. Unsuspecting, probably sleeping in their own beds, Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley were absolutely oblivious in that one second prior to their instantaneous deaths. All things considered of course, worst of all, what about Harry? Was he, too, in that house when it exploded? Surely he had been...Where else would he have been? The subsequent thought of them all in their very last helpless moment, in which they recognized complete terror and insufferable pain upon meeting instantaneous, pitiful death, struck a hard chord with Remus, who momentarily felt a rise of nausea engulf him. For a slight moment he could not help but close his weary eyes in solemn acknowledgment of the abomination that had just taken place—

But it was a slight moment too long, for unexpected sparks from a nearby unidentified Death Eater's wand brushed dangerously alongside him, once on his left, then again on his right, and both times missing by mere centimeters. Shaking off all distracting thoughts, Remus did a double-take on his Nimbus and swerved erratically every which way, uncoordinated in his reflexive response; the ambushed werewolf, filled with an embarrassing fear all throughout himself, nearly walked right into his own suicide as he flew straight up, far down, to his distant left, and then halted after a careless soar to his sharp right. Now half-dizzied, Remus breathtakingly proceeded in this dysfunctional coordination across the black sky in a moment-to-moment, improvised evasion tactic.

Finally regaining some grace as he steered his broomstick half-uncertainly, Remus seized a rare chance to take a good look back to the peril which centrally disrupted the cloudless black skies about twenty yards away: dozens of shiny, multicolored sparks shot from each dueler's wand toward his or her opponent, back-and-forth in a seemingly endless sequence of battle; in reality, though, they inevitably found themselves silently just praying that their every consecutive spell would allow them the luxury of living another moment longer. By sheer luck Remus was able to lock his gaze right on Tonks, only to witness a flash of green light suddenly expel upon her, then _through_ her, veracious as ever and deadly as can be...

And then Nymphadora Tonks — perhaps screaming, perhaps not, as Remus himself was a bit too far off to really hear anything — flung hopelessly off her broomstick, seeming to hang suspended in midair before falling downward, down all the way until reaching a hardhearted death in vain.

Remus felt his stomach fall back into his chest, suffocating his lungs and shattering his heart to pieces all at once. "NO!" he cried out in disbelief, not caring that he was foolishly attracting attention to himself now. No, in this overtaking moment Remus totally felt himself lose focus with reality, the images and sounds around him fading fuzzily away...

But then he forced himself back to senses, pulling forth on sheer animal instinct alone. There were still the others to be reckoned with, his remaining comrades whom loyally continued to duel opponents midair, and Remus couldn't let them die in vain too. Thinking fast, he gripped his wand and confidently pronounced, "_Sonorus_!" Now his voice would elevate high enough that the others could hear him when he shouted their predetermined code signal to flee. Feeling ready and unready at the same time, Remus bellowed with every ounce of strength left in him, "...DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY, GO — _NOW_!" Nonetheless, more and more he was still feeling his heart sink, rapidly die into nothingness. Harry was gone and there wasn't a bloody thing he could do about it. No matter what, even in the hypothetical case that they all (minus Tonks, obviously) survived, the entire point of the mission was altogether a complete failure: _they'd failed to rescue Harry_.

End of story. Plain and simple.

And to really, _really_ seal the deal, even in the remotest chance that Harry HADN'T been at the Dursleys' when the home exploded and was miraculously still alive, he, Remus, and the rest of the Order regardless were without the faintest idea of where to go looking for him now. Yes, all their manpower and resources had essentially been for nothing at all. All their fullest efforts were for nothing but pitiful defeat now, for a shameful concession in which his precious Nymphadora had been forever taken from him.

Without any doubt whatsoever, it all became too much to swallow as the worst night of Remus' entire life grew more and more destructive, with every consecutive moment engulfing him even further into its seize of control over him.

Shutting his eyes for a brief irresolute moment, feeling rather solemn Remus could only pray that every remaining brave Order member who had selflessly signed up for this would, too, somehow survive _NOT _scathed in vain. Then, throwing in the towel at last once and for all, the now quite grievous Remus Lupin, who guiltily hoped he had somehow still yet to completely fail as captain of this Order mission, held his breath and vanished without a trace**.**

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**_The Daily Prophet _**

August 1st, 1997

"Harry Potter Arrested for use of Cruciatus Curse on Hogwarts Professor; also named Suspect in the Mysterious Murder of Albus Dumbledore!"

By Jane Witherspoon

**BREAKING. **_Harry Potter, the very boy famous for surviving the Killing Curse of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as an infant and, until very recently, the sensationalized "Chosen One" supposedly destined to end the relentlessly ongoing warfare and bloodletting rage of the present wizarding day, was arrested by the Ministry's top Aurors at midnight on July the thirty-first, the precise date of his seventeenth birthday!_

_ The totally unforeseen arrest comes as a great shock to many, most even, as the famous "Boy-Who-Lived" never seemed the type to commit such unspeakable crimes (rather the stark opposite as a matter of fact!). Especially baffling this matter is indeed when weighed against the widespread rumor of recent months which, previously noted above, claims Potter is predestined to once again vanquish the insurgent Dark Lord and the unending horror his heinous acts derail upon us. ____And yet __according to the official report, during the recent blitz attack on Hogwarts at the hands of several notorious Death Eaters — in which as a noteworthy result the great Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts' long-glorious Headmaster, was tragically murdered — Potter, who may or may not have been in cahoots with said Death Eaters, at some point inflicted the Cruciatus Curse on his Potions professor, Severus Snape. According to partially revealed contents of a semi-confidential report written by the investigating Aurors, Mr. Snape had been attempting to stop You-Know-Who's henchmen from escaping, and had it not been for Potter's seemingly unmotivated attack, the Potions Master himself assures, "...The Death Eaters would have been stopped." _

___All too revealing, perhaps, seem these glaring details which __Prophet ____insiders were exclusively made privy to. All the same, however, are these same details not also all too __unrevealing____ just as well, at least as far as the larger scheme of things is concerned? Equations like these remain unsolved. Only adding to the countless unanswered questions, __Potter's trial date, say elite Ministry officials, is not set to be announced for at least the next seventy-two hours. Nevertheless, a lead spokesperson for Rufus Scrimgeour, the present-day Minister of Magic, briefly suggested to __Prophet ____insiders that it is the Minister's will to ensure Mr. Potter receives a speedy trial date. Accordingly, "Minister Scrimgeour wishes to prevent any unnecessary delay which would hinder proceedings pertained to Potter's right to due process. It is his deepest fear that these late troubled times have perhaps resulted in a frightening shortage of delivered justice at the higher levels of heinous crime."__ The fascinating insight from Sir Minister himself, hardly shining light on anything but the utter and complete obvious._

_ Story still to ever-unfold — stay tuned to the __Prophet f____or up-to-date coverage!__!_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: _Undone_

"_Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak_." - Matthew 26:41

Harry Potter had now spent a full day trapped in the harsh captivity of his tiny cell; a full twenty-four hours spent feeling like his own sanity was progressively diminishing. It almost surprised him that he was still alive; the many insufferable hours of repetitious mental torture surely should have killed him by now, no? Well, regardless, if he was sure of nothing else, Harry Potter was absolutely positive that his time spent in this degrading cage had been (and still was) a psychologically-destroying agony greater than he could ever have imagined.

Especially disorienting was the chest-stabbing thought of Aunt Petunia, of what had happened to her after they'd been Apparated against their will from the kitchen. It was the last Harry had seen of his aunt, those last moments when she'd been right there in front of him in the kitchen. Except then without warning they were only to, before either of them knew it, be entrenched in the pull of (seemingly) Kingsley Shacklebolt, who'd spontaneously somehow Apparated into the Dursleys' kitchen; then in less than a heartbeat everything, all of his surroundings and conscious thought, vaporized away, leaving only darkness to overcome Harry completely.

Not surprisingly, the consecutive inevitable thought of Uncle Vernon and Dudley's fate thereafter was almost too haunting to fathom. He felt certain somehow that the worst-possible outcome was true, that Uncle Vernon and Dudley had both been subsequently killed in some terrible way. Harry imagined they'd probably walked into the scenario of Aunt Petunia and himself seemingly having disappeared only to be blindsided by a personal attack, except in their case the two were probably just the burdensome "leftovers" and, in inevitable consequence, just killed off without a second thought. What the foul players behind this menace desired on the contrary with Aunt Petunia, Harry had not a clue, though her stronger knowledge and connection to the wizarding world, however slight, certainly had something to do with it. Maybe Aunt Petunia knew more than she was telling him even still! The Ministry or whoever had to have gone through quite a lot of trouble to capture her in the ever-so-urgent way they did. Sighing as he stiflingly tried assessing his wistful thoughts, Harry felt all these baffling notions if possible make the pain of his headache grow sharper, the senselessness disguising all of it practically maddening him...

Antsy as can be, he sat rigidly on the hard stone floor here in this tiny underground prison cell of his, legs crossed and back arched over in weakness and shame. No one had come "visit" him since Fudge, and that had been so many hours ago; each passing hour seemed to somehow outstretch painfully past eternity, every moment maximally torturous for him. A million unhelpful, heavy self-defeating thoughts ran simultaneously across his brain nonstop, none which made sense and none which seemed to even stick long enough to be rationally pondered. Not surprisingly, it was not long of this solitary, excruciating mental torture before Harry began to truly sense his sanity breaking, like cold water slipping out of the cup of one's own hands. At times he really wished he could just cry honestly, "throw in the towel" for a self-pitying moment in twisted ease (so to speak), but Harry was far too dehydrated for the strength to do even that.

All his thoughts were dark and clouded with uncertainty. '_How can all this truly be happening to me? I reckon I'll go bloody mad if I'm stuck here much longer — I mean look at me: I'm sitting trapped in a dungeon cell here for a crime I did NOT commit, and yet there's not a single damn thing I can do about any of it!_' Transfixed stubborn in all his unresolved anger, Harry couldn't help thinking miserable thoughts like this as he sensed his hate for his present dilemma rapidly increasing. '_How am I even going to go on like this, surviving, how could anybody have the will to live on with the knowledge and strife of this? How can I be seriously put through this bloody godforsaken inhumanity_?! _How could no one have seen how very, VERY wrong all this was and stopped it from happening?_' He in fact had so much anger brewing inside himself, overheating all-throughout him, that it really served to be just one more thing to further exhaust him. This plight in isolation was not compatible with human life, plain and simple...

In particular, however, it did indeed seem to be the very thought of how there was absolutely nothing he could do to help his own self in this awful predicament that kept running from one side of his brain to the next, constantly back and forth, and that in itself was enough, Harry suspected, to make him barking mad pretty soon if nothing changed. His headache seemed to grow more painful with every passing moment, though of course each one could obviously be spent doing nothing but mulling over this specific fact again and again, frustratingly enough. There was no resolution at all to be taken from it, obviously, instead only agony, and it was threatening to make his skull explode as it throbbed on, too. (Then again, in SOME ways, Harry, depressed as ever, felt death could actually be_ preferable _to his current suffering here, dying with pride rather than living on in defeat.)

Finally, following what felt like an eternity in his isolated suffering, once again footsteps, growing louder, could be heard descending the apparently nearby staircase. Harry immediately lit up, fearful yet excited to see what would happen next, for the opportunity alone to talk to another human being burnt a little candle of hope inside him. His heart thumped harder and harder the closer the footsteps became, tantalizing him all-throughout...

At last, a silhouette which remarkably Harry recognized right away, would have even in light dimmer than this, began forming in his eyesight. It was a person he never anticipated would ever become faint in the memory of his mind, toad-like as ever and succumbing to an increasingly loud laughter as she got closer in that irritating as ever, infamous girlish voice of hers: the small but largely disgusting spectacle of none other than Dolores Umbridge appeared in face of him. Turning to look straight at Harry and smiling pleasantly as she noticed the obvious glimmer of confused shock and anger in his wide, haunted green eyes — _vulnerability_ in a word, essentially — Umbridge laughed ten times louder in mockery of him. It was quite apparent (though not at all surprising of course), Dolores Umbridge had absolutely no shame whatsoever in facing Harry now, even after all the horrific things she had done to him and countless others he cared for (things which were often, quite notably, _illegal_), and as, incredibly, a (presumably) still prominent Ministry employee at that!

Several highly tense-filled moments of utter silence passed in which she stared him up and down condescendingly. Daunting as Harry regretfully felt her presence be, it felt as though Umbridge had immediately gazed right through him and was now amused as she gauged the rising enmity threatening to burst out his chest, distemper him completely. Overcome a slight (to say the least!) by her uniquely vicious staring, it felt like certainly much more than just fifteen contemptuous seconds had passed when Dolores Umbridge at last spoke her first words. "Harry Potter, we meet again at last. It is with my greatest delight, too, no worries! Glimpsing you at your poorest and most pitiful, as the very picture that I'd always envisioned would be your inevitable reflection in end, is most satisfying," she expressed happily, her compassionless voice something beyond rancid.

Unable to stop himself from reacting, Harry was instant to glare at one of the people in the world that he detested the most. Glowering, he finally just hissed through clenched teeth, "YOU! I can't believe you still work for the Ministry after all you've done." They weren't the eloquent, double-taking words he'd hoped for, just the candid things on Harry's disgusted mind. There were of course so many things he wanted to say, mostly ask honestly, but that was something pride alone kept him from doing. Stubborn, Harry absolutely could not let Umbridge's open eyes see right through him straight at all his ugly vulnerabilities, particularly considering all that fear, confusion, rage and despair straining him was proving to destroy him _inside-out_, surreal, and more and more intense with every gaining moment, too.

Umbridge laughed again, this time more lightheartedly in cool response, fairly relaxed, before making a very pointed statement. "Potter, save your breath for later. You're going to need it when your upcoming trial creeps right up on you, which by the way will be very soon too, considering the Minister is making a top priority of securing a speedy trial date in your near future; you know, given Scrimgeour wants all the mysteries and ill deeds surrounding your actions unveiled to the wizarding world's public eye sooner rather than later." Her voice was practically inhuman in its complex utter apathy and total lack of sympathy (much less remorse!) for Harry despite the grand-scale injustice being carried out against him. Reinforcing her message, with an extra bit of venom offending in her tone Umbridge cruelly added, "You hear me?! That's right, Potter…You're FINISHED."

Although the former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had always been a total nightmare in Harry's mind, in this very second he nevertheless had never felt her presence be more glaring. Looking up at her with unhindered hatred, he felt himself shake worse with fervent anger the longer Umbridge grinned cheerfully upon the degraded sight of him prisoner. Unable to stop in sight of her growing, sickening amusement, feeding to impulse Harry burst out swearing, "Umbridge, you bloody cow! I haven't done anything wrong, I'm innocent, and I've committed NO crime! But I reckon you're pleased as ever to _frame me_, though! It was probably even all your idea, wasn't it, Umbridge? Only you could trap me right into a barking-mad freak show like this..." Rage slurred Harry's words as tension engulfed every inch of his body.

But Umbridge just uproariously laughed over Harry's reaction. Shaking her head slowly down at him, she condescendingly said in a false sweet tone, "Silly Mr. Potter. Still, I see, we have not yet learned to not tell lies, hmm?" Tongue curled in cheek, Umbridge looked quite flattered with personal amusement as she reminded Harry of their particularly memorable detention sessions in his fifth Hogwarts year.

Harry couldn't help but flinch as the tumultuous memories reeled through his mind, intently looking up at her and _not_ at his visibly tremulous hand which, if ever faintly, still retained the scar from those painful nights ('**I must not tell lies**'). The impregnable recollection of it immediately cuffed him with fury of the most maddening kind. Teeth clenched, Harry had to consciously open his mouth a little to make sure he was taking actual breaths. He was certain that his anger was animated all over his increasingly reddened face as he spat in retort, "You worthless hag! Mark my words, Umbridge, I'll...I will make you pay for this in the end — _you will_!" In his tirade he stupidly hung two clenched fists at his middle, neither obviously of any use to him while still encaged.

Umbridge laughed at his pathetic antics, wholeheartedly once again in that obnoxious girlish voice of hers, but this time more briefly. Then, taking him by full surprise, her furtive eyes left Harry and turned in the direction that she came rather. Though her smile remained steady, her expression became studious, forehead creasing into a remarkably focused stare. But before Harry had even a second to wonder what had so curiously distracted Umbridge, a bone-chilling cold that he knew too well pervaded his every surrounding, sending a freezing shiver up his spine. In a second the disquieting aura of coldness was seriously suffocating him, as all emotional strength had suddenly vanished from within him—

And instantly, Harry of course knew very well what had happened: Umbridge had summoned Dementors. In every way Harry fell disarmed, trembling in almost a convulsion unstoppably as horrible, HORRIBLE memories — of Voldemort coming back to life and Cedric being murdered, of watching his godfather be forever vanquished past that mysterious veil at the Ministry by his own cousin, that bitch Bellatrix, of Snape getting away after killing a completely blindsided Dumbledore in cold blood — pulverized him, shocked him with their specially torturous spark. Although Harry could sense himself losing balance, weaken at knees, he could do nothing to stop the pain. Blue from breathlessness, Harry just happened to glimpse forward at the hallway and noticed several large, dark shadows closing in quickly, a uniform of gliding silhouettes that in consequence made the already very limited light dissipate. Finally, as three towering, fully-formed Dementors appeared in the corner of his wincing eye, dispensing ominous mists that reaffirmed their readiness, Harry collapsed onto the floor, falling stomach-first hard. Feeling like every bone in his body had just simultaneously broken, he could hear Umbridge's excited laughter only a moment longer before it rapidly faded out and everything went black.

_ In his very last horrified moment of consciousness, Harry Potter knew for sure that he'd alas met Death_.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

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**Author's Endnote**: Next chapter will be up very soon! Stay tuned! Sorry for major delay :(.


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